For All the Wrong Reasons I Still Couldn't Get It Right: Step 81

Before the concept of getting in touch with a feminine side, or for that matter the concept of a man having a feminine side was introduced to the world, a young man or teenager as the case may be was often considered genetically imbalanced if he showed interest in the arts. Certain musicians like guitarists, drummers and saxophonists might escape ridicule. But playing a violin, French horn or flute fueled the fire of homophobic teenagers and their unenlightened parents even if said musician’s sole interest was in watching the blonde with the lacy brassiere that showed through her thin white blouse pucker her lips over her mouthpiece hoping she would want to press them against his after rehearsal.

Choir boys, even those with deep bass voices, endured silent questioning about what went on under their robes, while actors were considered to bear no weight when walking in loafers whether or not they put pennies in them. One of the ironic twists was the perception of Rock Hudson as the kind of man many of these supposedly well-meaning parents would be proud to have their son be.

Amazingly, more than forty years before the show became an instant phenomenon on television the Glee factor was hard at work on yours truly. For those unfamiliar with this latest spin on Bye, Bye Birdie with a little Grease thrown in, the singing, or Glee, club of a fictional high school gains credibility and popularity when the quarterback and star receiver of the football team discover their love for all things musical and join the club.

So, even before making my misguided decision not to try out for the school play, I had determined to mount a counter attack to the notion my chromosomes may be out of whack. Needless to say, unaware of my own homophobic proclivity it never occurred to me to ignore such an absurd assessment, nor the impact my actions might have upon my male friends who were just becoming aware of their sexual desire for something other than the aforementioned stereotype. Nonetheless, as noted in the previous story about my attendance at numerous games during the Braves final season at Milwaukee County Stadium, the urge to play high school baseball had emerged.

Although there was the one great season of softball at Grantosa Elementary, I never participated in little league and only played one season as an outfielder in a Babe Ruth league. Knowing a number of players from last year’s freshman team were moving directly to the varsity team I thought I had a shot at making the sophomore team. When word spread that Coach Hytinen had selected a starting sophomore lineup but was looking for pitchers, I quickly ditched my bat and started throwing as hard as I could.

Noticing a number of boys who brought tennis balls to school to work on their grip I scavengered the garage and basement to find the tool I was convinced would make me a star hurler. I had learned the importance of a batting stance and using hips and legs to drive the bat through the ball when hitting, but a transfer of such kinesthetic principles to pitching never occurred, at least not prior to tryouts.

So, after throwing as hard as I could, developing a completely sore arm, and achieving a fairly high degree of accuracy, my velocity fell far short of those who knew how to get their hips and legs into the delivery of the horsehide wrapped sphere. Trying to save face I told friends it was the snow forcing us inside to throw on the flat gym floor that curtailed my speed even though I knew I had never practiced throwing from a mound. Well, I would just have more time to concentrate on my studies, at least until football season.

Time to Reflect: Step 40

Last summer while waiting to attend a wedding in West Patterson, New Jersey my daughter and I visited the Yogi Berra museum. While I confess to holding some distaste for the Yankees who in my opinion have a lineup of overly compensated ball players, Yogi is the kind of guy I’d personally like to know. Not the flamboyant superstar, just a good solid clutch hitter, his quotes have become legendary. On this, major league baseball fantasy league draft day, I thought it apropos to quote him here. In his inimitable fashion he said, “Slump? I ain’t in no slump…I just ain’t hitting.” This relates closely to another assertion Yogi made where he observed that 90% of the game was mental, and only the other half was physical. If a person is busy worrying about how this equation does not add up he misses the point. When confronted with the circumstances I have found myself in over the past two years it’s easy to take the view that I am in a slump. My routine is irregular. Many nights sleep eludes my worn out body and mind. My exhaustive state limits my mental stamina, which in turn leads to mind games regarding my physical health. But just as Yogi started with a question it is important for me to question this view. Earlier this week a discussion centered on whether or not the recession has ended. According to a lot of statistics that I don’t understand the economy has turned the corner. At the same time I recall labeling the economy as suffering a recession months, if not a year, before the actual data proved the assertion correct. Does this have a bearing on how I, or anyone else views his circumstances? Again, turning to Mr. Berra and his ballpark wisdom, it’s important to see the situation for what it is. “I just ain’t hitting.” When one is in a slump every opportunity to stand in the batter’s box looks like another chance to strike out. When one accepts the fact that one must select the right bat, see the ball clearly, and make contact then every time in the batter’s box becomes an opportunity to find a hole in which to drive the ball and get a hit. Getting up each day, facing the challenges of life, accepting the swings and misses, the foul balls, and being robbed by an infielder with incredible range are all aspects of the game. Life is never filled with constant hits. Anyone who knows anything about baseball knows the best hitters only get a hit about a third of a time, and one can become a millionaire hitting a quarter of the time. So, my friends out there in the blogosphere who are about to make their fantasy selections remember the players you pick will not have slumps they just won’t be hitting every day. Now, getting back to my personal situation, despite receiving zero comments most days I continue to post a new step on this blog every day. It is only a matter of selecting the right topic, clearly identifying the cares and concerns of my audience, and making the connection that will instill each reader to return again and again. Then, I will truly be hitting.

Tex Returns to Grantosa Drive: Step 18

Baseball is America’s national pastime. Still, before any child gets his hands on a baseball he learns to play softball. The same holds true for girls. Unfortunately, during my years at Grantosa Drive girls did not participate in the noon softball games, and their adult counterpart, the women on the faculty, did not participate in the annual faculty-all star softball game. Mr. Magna started this game the year the school opened. In its first six years the champion of the noon softball league had often come close but had yet to manage a victory over the combined faculty-all star team. All four years when Mr. Magna selected the all stars and the following two years when he was promoted and became principal at another school leaving the selection and slugging duties to Mr. Nelson their teams defeated the noon champion. My intention was to make the seventh year different. After all, we were the first class that made it all the way through from kindergarten to sixth grade at this school. Becoming the first team to defeat the all stars and the male faculty and staff seemed to me a noteworthy way to end our tenure. The male faculty and staff consisted of the janitor, whose name escapes me, Mr. Nelson and Mr. Doyle. Now, even though Mr. Doyle wasn’t the homerun hitter the janitor and Mr. Nelson were, he drew a bigger crowd than his predecessor, the younger and quite handsome Mr. Magna. Fifth and sixth grade girls, who generally looked at this time as a chance to stay on the playground with their friends rather than return to the classroom after lunch, actually paid attention to the game. They knew Mr. Doyle would help them to learn and appreciate the game, not treat them like second-class citizens, and refuse to let the boys laugh at them. Changing the outcome of the game began by putting together a talented and cohesive team. As luck would have it when we selected members of our respective noon hour teams I won the honor of the first pick. It was a foregone conclusion it would be Tom. Yes, the same Tom who crushed me into a pile of snow a couple years earlier when he was known as Tommy. He could be counted on for making numerous kids chase his ball to the far end of the playground. But, to win the championship and beat the faculty-all star team required a solid lineup from top to bottom. Even Glen, our last pick proved valuable as he learned to put the perfect arch on his underhand pitch. While hitting was important I knew the key to consistent winning was solid defense. Tex was that key. He could scoop up the many hits down the third base line and rocket his throw to big Tom at first. Everything was going as planned until Tex announced one day in May that he was moving back to Texas. It’s not clear to me how we managed to win those final noon hour games, but I figured the all-stars would pick us apart by hitting singles down to third and then be driven home by the janitor or Mr. Nelson. To this day I am not sure of the whole story. Theoretically, schools in Wisconsin may have started their summer vacations later, or their was a need to come back to get some things, or they decided to pay a visit to some friends, or whatever. All I knew was it was the day of the game and there he was. Tex was back. Some of the girls started singing, “Tex is back, the all-stars are in trouble,” to the tune of “My Boy Friend’s Back” by the Chiffons. And, indeed he was back and his arm made the difference. We won. I never saw Tex again. So, if you’re out there in cyberland reading this Tex your comments to support my story would be appreciated. After all, not everyone believes you when your facts are stranger than fiction.